Nursery Rhymes
by Art and Soul
Summary: Sherlock's blood's red, and his eyes are blue. He's not dead. Oh, Moriarty's back, too.


**I don't own Sherlock or anything else you recognize.**

**In fact, everything Moriarty says belongs to civilisationsofpurethought on Tumblr. :D**

**Edited on 6/3/13.**

* * *

Sherlock sat in the ratty little motel room he'd rented for the night. The room was dark and damp and generally smelled of must and alcohol. He had been chasing after the flies in Moriarty's web, trying to disassemble it, going forward little at a time. Tedious as it was, he could no longer say he was bored. No one knew it was him, solving the cases in the dark, faceless and nameless. Different presses gave him different nicknames, such as Batman or The Lurker.

Sighing slightly, he took a small sip of the cup of coffee he'd gotten, and removed his blond wig and fake soul patch. Out of habit he glanced at his phone, half expecting it to chime, leaving him a note of 'one new message'. It was often that he would get messages from John. Mostly just about little things, such as the weather; sometimes they were filled with sentiment, sadness-going on about how much he missed Sherlock. begging him to perform one last miracle.

But Sherlock couldn't reply—after all, he was a dead man.

But tonight, his phone chimed, and it was not John.

_Hello, Sherlock._  
_[BLOCKED]_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the text, before quickly whipping out a reply.

_Hello. Who is this?_  
–_SH_

Moments later, a reply came, and the screen of the phone lit the room, casting shadows on the peeling, horrid yellow-and-brown wallpaper.

_An interested party._  
_[BLOCKED]_

However, another came moments later.

_I've got a little story for you. A fairy tale._  
_[BLOCKED]_

Sherlock, no matter how much he hated it, felt a jolt of fear at that moment. Trying his best to destroy and forget it, he waited for the stranger to continue, and would have been perfectly motionless if not for the quick movements of his calculating, icy eyes.

_Richard Brook sat on a wall._  
_Sherlock Holmes has a great fall._  
_All Mycroft's horses and all Lestrade's men  
Couldn't put Watson together again._  
_[BLOCKED]_

It took no time at all for Sherlock to reply.

_What have you done with John?_  
_-SH_

The reply took only a moment.

_Oh, nothing, nothing._  
_[BLOCKED]_

_I'm merely caring for him._  
_[BLOCKED]_

Sherlock smirked softly. He felt his heartbeat increase, just a little bit, as he tapped the keys on his phone, fingers like lightning.

_Jim, you're getting repetitive._  
_-SH_

The phone chimed quickly after, four times.

_I told you, Sherly._  
_-JM_

_I haven't done anything to harm him._  
_-JM_

_In fact, he's safe and sound in his flat._  
_-JM_

_Well, as safe and sound as a clinically depressed ex-soldier with the return of a certain psychosomatic injury can be._  
_-JM_

Eyebrow cocked upward in slight curiosity, Sherlock hesitated a moment.

_Depressed?_  
_-SH_

He could almost hear Moriarty's high, soft voice speaking the words as if he were there in person. But Sherlock knew better. And right now, John might be in danger.

_Going mad without his precious little detective alive._  
_-JM_

It took moments for Sherlock to come up with a deduction.

_So that's your plan._  
_-SH_

Moriarty took a moment to reply.

_What, wait for him to off himself?_  
_-JM_

_Hm, no. Plenty tragic, but hardly entertaining enough._  
_-JM_

A streak of anger bubbled in Sherlock's stomach.

_John is strong. He wouldn't kill himself._  
_-SH_

_Not voluntarily, at least._  
_-SH_

_I'm not that repetitive, dearest._  
_-JM_

_You'd be surprised. That little disappearing act had quite the effect on him._  
_-JM_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, replying quick as ever, falling onto his back.

_Well, I owe that to you, don't I?_  
_-SH_

He stretched and gave his hair a good fluffing out of habit.

_All part of the plan, Sherlock._  
_-JM_

_So tell me. Have you figured it out yet?_  
_-JM_

_How I'm alive?_  
_-JM_

Sherlock gave another half-smirk, recalling the 'interrogations' he's been doing as he took down each dancing thread of Moriarty's web.

_I've got a theory._  
_-SH_

_Do share._  
_-JM_

Sherlock's long, nimble fingers eagerly typed across the key pad, and the phone itself couldn't keep up with his typing.

_Well, I've done a bit of 'research' recently. You weren't lying when you said you were Richard Brook, but I didn't hire you. So who did?_  
_-SH_

Sherlock felt a long-awaited dose of superiority that he missed oh so much.

_Mm, you're getting there._  
_-JM_

His smile faded.

_What? What did I miss?_  
_-SH_

Moriarty took his sweet time replying. Sherlock took the time to scold himself for missing something crucial, as he so clearly did.

_I was Brook's employer, dear. Not Brook himself._  
_-JM_

_You're speaking to the figure behind the curtain now. The real Moriarty. Hello!_  
_-JM_

_We've never met._  
_-JM_

_Or have we? Oh, dear…_  
_-JM_

Sherlock took a moment to let the violent urge to throw his phone at the wall pass.

_So brook is really dead, then._  
_-SH_

He posed it more as a statement than a question, because he wasn't really asking, just confirming.

_Currently rotting in an unmarked grave inYork._  
_-JM_

Sherlock couldn't help but feel the anticipation building up inside him.

_Well, this makes things much more interesting._  
_-SH_

Moriarty changed the subject back to his identity now, as he replied moments later.

_I could be anyone._  
_-JM_

_The Detective Inspector who took you under his wing. The Woman who beat you. Perhaps even the Soldier himself…_  
_-JM_

Sherlock doubted John once. It wouldn't happen again, because John never doubted him—even in the end.

_I don't think so._  
_-SH_

_That would be quite the plot twist, wouldn't it?_  
_-JM_

Sherlock didn't reply. He waited.

_I'm sure your situation is abundantly clear to you, Sherlock._  
_-JM_

_You've got to do whatever I say._  
_-JM_

Sherlock hesitated, and felt his eyes narrow again, just slightly, at the screen in front of his face as he scanned it again, trying to predict what Moriarty's demands would be.

_And what would that be?_  
_-SH_

_Dying again?_  
_-SH_

Moriarty did not hesitate.

_Hm, no._  
_-JM_

_Not yet, anyways._  
_-JM_

_You're going to return to your precious blogger._  
_-JM_

_You're going to resume life at 221B Baker Street as it was before your little tumble._  
_-JM_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed further, as he typed back.

_What's the catch?_  
_-SH_

He could see Moriarty (or rather, Richard Brook) smile and laugh, just slightly, when he read the next message.

_Just setting the stage, dearest. Act two is about to begin, and we've got to bring our audience back._  
_-JM_

Sherlock's sense of anticipation doubled on itself, and his heart rate increased. The game was on, now, perhaps the final round—but what did it matter? It kept him from boredom, at least.

_Then I suppose the game is on again._  
_-SH_

There was a long pause…

_Oh, Sherlock._  
_-JM_

_The game never stopped._  
_-JM_


End file.
